if we were acting real silly mom would call us retreads because you're not supposed to say retard.

later. when i was an aspiring young anarchist i made a moving picture with a german guy who called us the lords of leisure bemusedly about a very earnest jewish painter who quoted milton greenberg in front of his painting which were made by squeezing fat tubes of pigment directly on the canvas. i interviewed him while my friend pete manned the camera. at one point trying to take in the whole small room he backed the camera into a freshly daubed creation i believe called  orange crush. it was embarrassing but our painter was unfazed.

actually we were playing mean, we wanted to contrast the painter with scenes in the retread factory but they wouldn't admit us thankfully. i still feel bad, though the painter never knew.

the painter got real sick later and i felt bad again. the film disappeared  and pete became a cinematographer. my german friend became a star architect of museums and never looked back. i still look back, perhaps because i'm just a dog walker. yet  i'm still an anarchist and a lord of leisure.

later, the cinematographer, the architect, and the painter, all gone. mom doesn't call me a retread anymore but she's in florida and i'm not as silly anymore. but i am tired, and i don't aspire to art or satire anymore.